Schadenfreude
by ChicagoFlowers
Summary: For Better or For Worse: does tragedies really bring two people closer or just further apart? A Jay-centric. #Linstead OneShot COMPLETED


**_A little Linstead angst. . . ._**

* * *

 **Schadenfreude**

* * *

 _. . .Pain looks great on other people. . ._

-:-

It is a deep, knotted and unbeknownst feeling that has settled within his chest.

It doesn't overwhelm him, actually, doesn't breathe him in, doesn't have him grasping at the aged sand minuscules below him in overwhelming agony.

It doesn't force his palms to curl, to have crescents bleeding into his flesh, fingernails crying, screaming red as his skin numbs with the hurt.

It doesn't tear at his hair, doesn't leave wet trails down his cheeks, doesn't reveal fist-shaped bruises at his chest, doesn't claw at his eyes with crimson-coloured fingernails, crimson-coloured fingernails that had once danced across his jaw with what he would deem as ... reverence.

It is just deep, and it is just unknown, and it sinks into his flesh like a coat of skin, a coat of glittering pale skin, the coat of a newborn child.

It takes every bit of his strength to breathe.

The night tide rushes up to his toes, bathing him in the sensation of ice as sand grains grasp to the skin, grasp to his skin like a plump red mouth to sweat-soaked flesh on a cool summer night.

* * *

 _"Sophia." she whispers easily against his lips._

 _He smiles warmly, an action unconsciously frequented over the past several years, the pads of his fingers pausing their slow trek over the material of her blouse. His eyelids remain blissfully shut, the dreamy mist of the ocean lulling his senses to a sweetened dull._

 _"Aurora." he speaks against her lips._

 _His back is against the sand, and she, atop of him, a few feet away from the dampened surface where the tide had rushed in, midnight black against the sparkling specks from heaven._

 _She seems to consider it for a moment, and he is sure her eyebrows are furrowed in deep thought, before she replies._

 _"Catalina."_

 _"Hope." he replies, the name, the word foreign to his lips, and, to hers, as well._

 _He feels her lips pull away, feels her fingers rest against his cheekbones. When his lids slowly slide open, he catches sight of her affectionate smile, dark eyes brilliant even among the moon-lit beach around them._

 _"Aurora Hope Halstead." she speaks softly and slowly, testing the name to her tongue. "I think it's sorta beautiful."_

 _He smirks, fingers moving from the curve of her waist to bury themselves in the floating curls at her back. Even with the years that had passed, his fascination with the spun silk had only seemed to grow in intensity._

 _"Like that princess from the fairy tale."_

 _A small smile graces her lips; her head rests against his chest, ear pressed to the heartbeat below her, fingers tracing unshaped patterns against the sand beside her._

 _"She'll have everything she needs."_

 _He presses a firm kiss to the top of her head, keeping his lips against the silken strands. "She won't want anything in the world."_

 _It is the silence that binds them, even with the gentle protruding of her belly that keeps them apart._

* * *

His toes dig deeper into the sand, a whisper of a sound against his skin, a whisper of a promise he believes in so strongly, one that he would travel to his grave for it.

* * *

 _"Are you gonna be up much longer?"_

 _He glances up from the blinding row of blackened digits before him, catching sight of her body leaning against the open doorway to the study._

 _Slowly, he stands, feeling the exhaustion of the past few weeks settle easily against his shoulders. He mentally shrugs the excess weight off and lifts his rolled cuffs even further up his arms, moving to stand in front of her before he kneels._

 _His fingers find the smooth buttons of his shirt, flicking the last several open._

 _His lips settle to the supple skin of her abdomen, roaming over the clearly evident bump that ended right above her panty line. He breathes the scent of her vanilla moisturiser before he presses the softest kiss against her skin._

 _And, even though the bump is barely there, and it would be deemed impossible, he swears he feels something, swears he feels the tiniest sliver of life beneath his lips._

 _He fixes the buttons of his nightshirt and, at her gentle urging, stands before her._

 _"Did you take your vitamins?" he questions slowly, with a hint of concern he tries so desperately to conceal._

 _Her hands run over the rampant strands of his hair, nodding slowly before she settles her arms against his shoulders._

 _Her feet are bare, she wears no makeup, and her hair has been brushed away from her face, the only clothing she wears being his shirt and a pair of cotton panties._

 _And he whispers into her ear, he whispers and swears and pleads with her to believe that she has never looked more beautiful._

* * *

His eyes glance upward to the pattern of stars above him, a pattern of stars so bright and brilliant, bright and brilliant like the sight of endless crimson against an ashen surface.

* * *

 _It is her scream that awakens him._

 _He jolts upward, papers fluttering around him from their otherwise organised state._

 _It seems as if an eternity has pass before he finally reaches their bedroom. He was running._

 _He swear he was._

 _And it is the streaks of red that stops him, the bold streaks of dark red flooding the sheets below her, as she kneels atop the bedcovers, hands pressed firmly between her thighs._

 _She's crying and screaming, and yet he hears none of it._

 _All he sees, feels, smells is the pounds of crimson pouring over her hands, like silken rose petals raining atop her head on a hot summer afternoon._

 _And he steps forward and lifts her gently, even as she screams and claws at him, her liquid red hands grasping at the sodden sheets._

 _She curses him, cries a child's name, screams her sorrow, and he remains deaf to her shrieks._

 _She won't let go of the fabric, and he's sure she's screaming, but he's not certain, because all he can focus on is getting her away from the bloodied covers._

 _When he finally has her within his grasp again, she turns promptly and claws at his face with red fingernails until he is forced to release her. She crawls over the wet sheets and presses her cheek against the stained colour, lips chanting underused prayers she had learned as a child, body small and rocking slowly against the vast lake of red surrounding her._

 _When he tears her away again and holds her against his chest, he finally hears the crushing sobs that have devastated her, and he realises that the sight of blood may have a sound._

* * *

In the distance, a baby cries, a child laughs, and the cool salt air whips at his face, cool salted droplets falling against his cheeks like a mother's teardrops.

* * *

 _He begins to understand that disorientation must render him damn useless, because Chicago is a heaven of yellow cabs and he could very easily dial those three numbers, and yet he's sprinting to the hospital._

 _His legs, which have never even fathomed physical exercise this extreme, won't stop as he grips her quivering and wailing body within his arms, wind whipping at his hair as he runs to the building. He tries to fathom her words, tries to ignore the cries of shock-faced citizens of his city, tries to disregard the quick flashes of dazed passers, tries to be somewhat of a useful being._

* * *

It suddenly gets colder beneath his back; a frigid, endless frost, a frigid endless frost that makes it impossible to breathe.

* * *

 _When they finally reach the hospital, he breathes her name against her lips, presses a firm kiss against the surface, as the doctors pull her away from his tight grasp and ease her atop a gurney. He winces at the sight of his nightshirt engulfed in oxidesed red, winces at the sound of her whimpering figure trembling against the whitened surface, winces as he catches sight of her guilt-ridden forest eyes before the doors shut closed._

 _He doesn't even fathom the realisation that the entirety of his front surface is drenched in the blood of his wife, and the blood of his unborn child._

 _All he knows, all he realises, is that her lips have never felt colder._

* * *

His fingers run over the crinkled surface of the lone pack of cigarettes, temporary sticks of simple relief that just seem to make the screams go away.

* * *

 _The clock ticks._

 _The clock ticks against a silent background of an office._

 _An aged, balding man with round spectacles at the end of his nose peers over at him with slightly crinkled eyes._

 _Dr. ... Something, he can't remember what he said his name was._

 _"Do it."_

 _The man audibly takes a long breath, presses his eyes shut before he reopens them after a few tender moments._

 _Jay, a man thought to never have experienced the engulfing pain of exhaustion, sits before him, his elbows braced against his thighs as he leans over and presses his palms to his eyes, face hidden from view._

 _The doctor pulls off his spectacles, rubs the fatigue from his eyes, before replacing them and speaking slowly. "Mr. Halstead, I strongly urge you to consider the life of-"_

 _Jay sends his chair sprawling to the other side of the room and grabs at the man's coat, pulling the doctor's feet off the ground in one fluid motion._

 _"I said, fucking do it."_

* * *

His fingers toss the small plastic bit into his mouth before he washes the substance with water, the material lodging in his throat, lodging in his throat like the depravity of disturbing sobs.

* * *

 _"Why did you_ do _this to me?" she cries softly, body rocking slowly, ashen palms digging against the bar of her hospital bed, and he is sure that she will draw blood._

 _And he wants the blood to stay in, wants it to beat into her veins, wants everything that he did to actually mean for something._

 _She won't meet his face, his eyes, her wavering body grasping for any semblance of control against the metal surface._

 _Her feet are bare, she wears no makeup, and her hair has been brushed away from her face, the only clothing she wears being a hospital gown and a pair of cotton panties._

 _And he wants to whisper, he wants to whisper and swear and plead with her to believe that she has never looked more beautiful._

 _He moves forward, unable to utter a word, but simply places his hand against her shoulder._

 _"Why did you_ have _to_ do _this to me?" she shrieks, yanking her body away from his touch, her eyes wild and her teeth bared as her fists begin to beat at his chest._

 _He holds her close, allowing her punches to run rampant, in a somewhat staccato rhythm, just in an attempt to be close to her again. She tears at his hair, beats at his chest, and pushes him away before she backs away slowly, her eyes flaming._

 _She painfully moans, one arm grabbing at her stitched-up abdomen as she bends forward a bit, mouth set in a grim line. He immediately moves forward, but she holds out her arm._

 _"No!" she screams at him with a threat, her other arm still at her belly as she backs away even more slowly than before. When another angry streak runs through her body, she hisses even more tightly, body bending forward even more than before, as she moves away from him._

 _"You did this to me. I can't. I can't ..."_

 _She can't say it out loud. He doesn't want to hear her say it too._ Barren _, she thinks and screams loudly within._

 _But he was saving her life. He saved her._

 _She can't ever have children of her own._

 _She bawls at him to stay away as she grimaces even more, but when he sees the tears pressed at the corners of her lids, he cannot be prevented._

 _He paces forward quickly, grabbing her middle, as she yells to be released. He wraps his arms around her, presses his nose into her hair._

 _She's crying and panting and most definitely in pain, and he whispers his apologies, soft murmurs against her ear, until, finally, all that is left are her tears._

 _And they fall to the ground below them, legs sprawled everywhere, as their hands refuse to part from the place at her belly._

* * *

He smokes a cigarette, a second, a third, a fourth, and a fifth, before he realizes his cheeks are wet.

* * *

 _He returns when the doctors have stabilised her, when they have assured him that the procedure had been done correctly. Her back faces the doorway, her form looking out over the moon-lit garden outside of the hospital room._

 _He drags a chair and settles it right before her eyes. He places the fuzzy teddy bear right beside her, a silly toy he had found in the hospital gift shop while the nurses had been in with her._

 _It had been either that or the collection of stuffed animals in a basket, and the teddy bear's sad eyes had reached out to him._

 _He moves to place her arm around the lovely creature in a gentle manner, but the minute his fingers touch her skin, she pulls away, like liquid fire had been burning at the pale flesh._

 _And his breath lodges in his throat, and he becomes desperate. He grasps at her hand and presses her ice fingers against his lips._

 _"Erin, we can adopt." he murmurs against her fingers, his voice taking on a hint of apprehension, a hint of fear, a hint of something he has actually never felt before. "We can still have a baby."_

 _She doesn't speak, her eyes staring out over the moon-lit garden his form hadn't wanted to cover. "Erin," he pleads, a shudder overcoming his voice. "Er, please."_

 _But she remains mute. Her eyes remain still and unmoving, and her hand is loose in his grasp._

 _He presses her fingers to the corner of his eyelids, watching her reaction as his tears wash over her fingers. Her stoic expression only drives his desperation further, more tears induced to fall and more heartbreaking sobs released from his throat. He presses frantic kisses against the skin of her palm, pushes his wet lashes against her cheek, whimpers his frantic apologies against her skin._

 _But she can only see the pink mass being pulled from between her legs, can only hear her own frantic shrieks, can only taste the metallic blood inside her mouth._

* * *

It is a deep, knotted and unbeknownst feeling that has settled within his chest.

It doesn't overwhelm him, actually, doesn't breathe him in, doesn't have him grasping at the aged sand minuscules below him in overwhelming agony.

It doesn't force his palms to curl, to have crescents bleeding into his flesh, fingernails crying, screaming red as his skin numbs with the hurt.

It doesn't tear at his hair, doesn't leave wet trails down his cheeks, doesn't reveal fist-shaped bruises at his chest, doesn't claw at his eyes with crimson-coloured fingernails, crimson-coloured fingernails that had once danced across his jaw with what he would deem as ... reverence.

It is just deep, and it is just unknown, and it sinks into his flesh like a coat of skin, a coat of glittering pale skin, the coat of a newborn child.

It takes every bit of his and her strength to breathe.

* * *

 _ **Thanks for reading.**_

 _ **What do you think of this?**_

 _ **Leave a REVIEW! And I hope you enjoyed (Well, as much as that's possible considering the topic of the chapter.)!**_


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